


Explain

by what_a_dork_fish



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Light Angst, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:25:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5099111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's very hard to find a good lie sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Explain

It’s hard to explain to her. The fully-furnished house, in a style definitely not her son’s; the constant international travel (”Aren’t you training as a tailor?” “Oh, well, I’m more of sales person at the mo’.”); coming home with injuries that he tries to laugh off (”Oh, babe, your arm–!” “’S alright, mum, it’ll get better.”); snobby coworkers and friends who are actually quite friendly for snobs (”Mum, this is my friend Roxy, she works at the shop too.”). It’s all very confusing and hard to keep straight.

Mum asks uneasily about Mr. Pickle and if he can be moved to a more respectful place. He has to nod because he doesn’t trust his voice, and takes Mr. Pickle’s shelf to Harry’s old bedroom, which he’s claimed as his own. Mr. Pickle is the only truly “Harry” thing he hasn’t packed ever so carefully in a box in the attic.

When he lies in the bed Harry used to use, he breathes in its peculiar scent (still strong after all these weeks) and stares at the ceiling, JB snuggled at his feet. He doesn’t cry. At first he was in shock; then there was Valentine to take care of; then the aftermath of the cull and those who exploded; and now he’s numb to it. He’s seen so much death, killed so many people. It doesn’t matter.

So why does it still hurt, deep in his chest?

Daisy is a toddler now. She is much happier, and rarely cries. She broke a teacup from Harry’s favorite set, and he couldn’t even be angry, though when she confessed to it she looked frightened. He got down on his knees and hugged her, and asked her not to go near the good china again. She agreed, and she hasn’t touched the fancy dishes since.

His mum makes friends with the neighbors. There are playdates for Daisy and the other babies, discussions for the adults, and he sits upright and proper in the uncomfortable sitting-room, trying to discourage fluttering eyelashes and coy smiles.

It shouldn’t matter. But it does.

It’s hard to explain to his mother, and he’s not sure if he can, until he finds the secret compartment in Harry’s desk. Frowning, he takes out a sheaf of yellow paper, written on by hand in Harry’s distinctive style, with his favorite pen.

Letters of congratulations. Letters of condolence. Letters of tenderness.

He sits numbly at the desk and reads every letter carefully. They all begin with “Dear Eggsy–”, except for one that’s unfinished. The last one. That one starts with “My dearest love”, and he has to read it five times to fully grasp what Harry was trying to say.

He thinks about burning them, but the very idea is repugnant. So he carefully sets them aside, stands, squares his shoulders, and marches to Daisy’s room, where she and their mother are having a tea party.

“Mum?” he asks, with only a tiny tremor in his voice. “I’ve got to tell you something.”


End file.
